


Three Times Aziraphale Was Almost Too Much Of A Bastard To Be Worth Liking

by feverbeats



Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-24
Updated: 2012-05-24
Packaged: 2017-11-05 23:23:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,212
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/412166
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/feverbeats/pseuds/feverbeats
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They have to stop meeting like this.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Three Times Aziraphale Was Almost Too Much Of A Bastard To Be Worth Liking

**Author's Note:**

> Note that I have stolen a line from Rosencrantz and Guildenstern Are Dead, because I guess I felt that was important to do. (WHY?)

**Egypt, 48 BC, arguably**   
  
The first time Crowley is afraid of an angel is not until the year that will be called 48 BC. In this, he's a little behind most demons. (Most demons, he thinks, would agree that this state of affairs is standard for him.)   
  
He's in Alexandria when it happens.   
  
Crowley is aware of the smell of smoke and the sound of fire, and it reminds him uncomfortably of—well, home. Then he sees the flames and has a split-second of panic where he thinks maybe he  _is_  back—no. No, that would be, while not impossible, at least unlikely. The fire is a little too clean to be anything but earthly. The building that 's currently burning is, according to the letters carved into the front, a library. Crowley considers just calling it a night and escaping somewhere quiet to indulge in a little  _sleeping_ , but before he has a chance, he catches sight of something familiar.   
  
There's someone on the roof of the building. Someone with wings.   
  
Crowley winces when he recognizes Aziraphale, although it takes him a moment. The angel's face is pale and terrible in the way that angels who aren't  _a little behind most angels_  tend to look. Flames rise up on either side of him, and under him, but they're not touching him. It isn't supposed to work that way, not on earth.   
  
"Angel?" Crowley says.   
  
There are people around him, running, some trying to put out of the fire, some watching and laughing. Crowley realizes the angel is looking at the second group.   
  
He shudders involuntarily and considers running. Slithering. Just getting out. But he's too curious.   
  
Aziraphale, the slightly rumpled and not very useful angel, looks great and terrible and good as he raises a hand, palm glowing. A man on the ground, a man holding a torch, looks up. He seems to be rooted to the ground, watching Aziraphale.   
  
"I should burn right through you," Aziraphale says. His voice doesn't sound musical as Crowley thought it might, just angry and tired. His eyes flicker with frustrated tears, not any divine wrath.   
  
Crowley supposes that as a demon, he ought to take pleasure in an angel being terrible. As it is, he's just vaguely uncomfortable. Then again, he always senses that both sides are meant to uphold the status quo more than anything else.   
  
"For what you have done to this place," Aziraphale intones, "your suffering should be eternal."   
  
Crowley is paying attention. Aziraphale isn't saying anyone's suffering  _will_  be eternal, and he's not using the important names. Well,  _the_  name. This isn't a holy condemnation; it's just the angel being angry and afraid.   
  
That makes Crowley less angry and afraid.   
  
"Are you really going to kill them?" he calls up.   
  
Aziraphale looks around, sees Crowley, and chokes out a little sob. His wings wilt almost immediately. The man with the torch is in motion again, running away.   
  
"Come down from there!" Crowley calls. "There's nothing you can do!" There's always something they can do, of course. But they're never allowed. Crowley wonders what Aziraphale would have done if he hadn't shown up.   
  
The angel starts to laugh, but the sound dies it his throat. It didn't sound right there. Next thing Crowley knows, Aziraphale is beside him. Crowley frowns. They're not supposed to work like that here.   
  
"Let's get out of here," he says, grabbing Aziraphale's arm. He doesn't like crowds, especially crowds that set fires. They make him jumpy.   
  
He manages to drag the angel, who seems only half aware of what's happening around them, to a quieter place, behind a building. This one isn't burning, and the stone is cool against Crowley's arm where he leans on it.   
  
"Why?" he asks.   
  
Aziraphale shakes his head, sobbing freely now. "I don't know. It doesn't matter. Politics, religion. War. It's just—it's so—all those  _books_ . It's  _senseless_ , and now they're lost forever..."   
  
Crowley pats the angel's back awkwardly. This isn't really something he's good at. Not even close to being in his skillset. He's closer to the type who burns down the libraries (although, granted, he hasn't and he wouldn't).   
  
Before Crowley can say anything else, Aziraphale shakes it off, looking embarrassed. "Oh, my  _wings_ , I really shouldn't have—but I wasn't thinking."   
  
"Right," Crowley agrees. "But wings combined with jumping from place to place--"   
  
"Means I should leave," Aziraphale says sheepishly. He looks like himself again. Crowley doesn't understand it.   
  
Crowley doesn't know the worst that could happen if Aziraphale stays here, but keeping a low profile very much  _elsewhere_  seems smart. Besides, Crowley wants an excuse to be elsewhere as well. Preferably a different elsewhere than the angel's.   
  
"Thank you," Aziraphale says. He just looks tired now. "If you hadn't stopped me--"   
  
"Let's not think about that," Crowley says quickly. He doesn't know what would have happened, and he doesn't know if he's more afraid of it being done by his people or by an act of--the other thing.   
  
He doesn't know if he wants to be afraid of angels or not.   
  
**England, 1020 AD**   
  
When they finally stumble their way into their Arrangement, there is some discussion of signing something. (They are in England, and in a good time for people who believe in their bosses.)   
  
"No," Crowley tells Aziraphale, vaguely repulsed. "My side is all about signing things. I don't like it. And I don't fancy my real name all over any documents anyone could turn up."   
  
They're at an inn, hidden away in a town no one would care about.   
  
Aziraphale frowns. "No, I agree. But we have to make it official somehow."   
  
And Crowley, because he's had more wine than the angel, leans over the table and says, "You could kissssss me." He immediately flushes, more at the way his tongue's got away from him than at what he's said.   
  
"Oh," Aziraphale says, going pink as well. "I'm almost certain that would be frowned on."   
  
Crowley gives him a pointed look. He also thinks very hard about how seducing angels will probably win him a few points. It's a half-hearted thought, though.   
  
"I think we should go elsewhere, though," Aziraphale says, recovering nicely. That's a surprise.   
  
*   
  
It's an unmitigated disaster. Crowley stares at the ceiling, watching the lines of light crawl like snakes as carts go by outside. He can't look anywhere else. He aches in places he should wish out of existence.   
  
"That went well," Aziraphale says with conviction.   
  
"We didn't even—" Crowley breaks off with a disgusted little sound.   
  
"Well, I don't know about you," Aziraphale sniffs, "but I'm a bit new at—at—"   
  
"You can't even say it!" Crowley says accusingly. "You can't even  _say_  it!" He throws the blanket at Aziraphale, losing whatever grace he had left.   
  
"No," Aziraphale agrees miserably. "Shall we—Why don't we put some clothing on?"   
  
Crowley blinks some into existence so fast he doesn't even think about it. He waits until Aziraphale has collected his own discarded clothing to risk a look. The angel is wearing Crowley's jacket.   
  
" _Ugh_ ," Crowley says. "You're a horrific angel. The worst."   
  
Aziraphale looks hurt, and Crowley catches himself looking for traces of that great, terrible being Aziraphale was in Alexandria. He can't find any.   
  
"It's true, through," Crowley says. "What's this whole Arrangement for if you're any good at being good?"   
  
"Don't be nasty," Aziraphale says nastily.   
  
"What do you like about people?" Crowley asks. "Honestly, now." He keeps pushing because he can't stop until he finds something horrible, but he's equally alarmed to think he might not.   
  
Aziraphale sits back down on the edge of the bed and fiddles with his hands as though he wishes he were holding something. Tea, probably.   
  
"I like what I know they're capable of," he says.   
  
That could mean anything. Crowley watches the lines of light play over the angel's face and tries not to shiver. The light could look like anything, if he let it. Snakes. Heaven. Maybe it's his own fault he finds the angel alarming.   
  
Crowley leans closers. "And what do you think about demons?" The word ends on a hiss, and he thinks he did it on purpose, but he's not sure.   
  
"Demons?" Aziraphale says blandly. "Or you?"   
  
"Go to--Just  _don't_ ," Crowley spits. "You're horrible."   
  
Aziraphale looks surprised. "Hardly, my dear. And what about  _you?_  You're a demon. You do huge, terrible things all the time."   
  
"Mm," Crowley murmurs, embarrassed into forgetting he's angry. "Probably not as often as you."   
  
Aziraphale raises his eyebrows, looking for all the world like a pleasantly bemused shopkeeper. "No? But I always thought—This really is working quite well, isn't it? This Arrangement of ours?" He lowers his voice, as if anyone would care to listen.   
  
Crowley nods, unnerved and wishing he had several more layers of clothes on. He doesn't even know what he's afraid of.   
  
**North Atlantic Ocean, 1912 AD**   
  
They don't mean to board the  _Titanic_  together. It just happens--Crowley's side told him to keep an eye on the hideous hubris of these humans, Aziraphale's side told him to witness a monumental feat of human ingenuity, and they each agreed out of morbid curiosity.   
  
In the end, it isn't either of their sides that does it. Just stupid, blind, human oversight.   
  
There they are, standing on the deck again with people running and screaming. They have to stop meeting like this.   
  
Aziraphale makes an awkward sound that's almost a word. Crowley glares at him. "Not one of mine," he says. Behind him, someone screams. He just wanted to enjoy the roast duckling (and he did). He didn't want this.   
  
Aziraphale is watching two women clutching each other's hands as they wait for the next lifeboat to be lifted down. It doesn't look promising. There are bigger, stronger people ready to take their place, and people are getting desperate.   
  
"Aren't you going to  _do something?_ " Crowley snaps. It takes a good ten seconds of Aziraphale staring at him in horror for him to realize what he's just said.   
  
"I mean," he says.   
  
"No, I—" Aziraphale starts. He runs his hand through his hair distractedly and tries again. "Do you think it's His plan? I don't know. They don't tell me things. I don't think they  _like_  me." His voice is nearly plaintive.   
  
"I don't know," Crowley snaps. He's thinking more about how water that cold will be an unpleasant way to lose a body. "We should try to get a boat, don't you think?" He's not the mood to talk, and he's really not in the mood to get knocked down again.   
  
Two hours ago, he was drunk on wine taking a nap in his car. Now, he's pretty sure it's already full of water. He liked that car.   
  
"We won't get one," Aziraphale says, his voice tight. "Look, I think we're better off just waiting and just--well, waiting." They can even say they were disembodied on assignment, this time.   
  
"Pragmatism? Is that all you have to offer?" Crowley demands. He wants the angel to  _do_  something. People are dying.   
  
Aziraphale glances around. "You know we can't stop this. It would be cheating on a scale that they couldn't ignore. It's too late."   
  
Crowley stares at Aziraphale for a second before turning and dashes off in the other direction.   
  
He wants to get his car, but he remembers again that he probably can't. The ship is starting to tip at an absurd angle now, and he's going to have trouble even saving himself, and that's what he does best.   
  
It's another half an hour before he runs into the angel again. In that time, he's put two kids on a lifeboat and tripped over a violin. He doesn't know what Aziraphale has done.   
  
The angel's hair is wet, and Crowley has no idea how that happened. "I, oh," he says when he sees Crowley. "What are you--?"   
  
" _What are we doing?_ " Crowley half screams, half whispers, his voice raw. He's too cold, which shouldn't happen but does (snakes), and he's panicking.   
  
"Dying," Aziraphale says, and he looks only a little worried. "There's no sense us taking up space, dear. It'll be over soon." He grabs Crowley's hand, surprisingly. They're both cold.   
  
They wind up clinging to the railing, Crowley half-flung there by Aziraphale. He glares at the water and lets his teeth chatter, trying to ignore the people screaming around them.   
  
"At least some of them made it," Aziraphale says quietly. "And most of the others probably deserved it, in one way or another."   
  
Crowley shakes his head. "That's...horrible."   
  
"Is it? I hadn't noticed."   
  
"That's worse," Crowley suggests, deeply unnerved. Then he realizes it might not be true. "Angels shouldn't lie," he says accusingly.   
  
Aziraphale looks slightly concerned. "It wasn't, exactly."   
  
_Oh dear_ , Crowley thinks. Then he thinks,  _I sound like him._  He laughs anxiously. "You don't think they deserve it. Do you?"   
  
"I don't know," Aziraphale says glumly.   
  
Probably, Crowley thinks, that's normal. Not for an angel, really, but normal. The only two beings in the world who would laugh at that joke. Not heaven, not hell, not humans.   
  
They go down with the ship, Crowley holding the hand Aziraphale nearly burned through them with in Alexandria. He's still afraid, but less so.


End file.
